On Good Days
by Bunnies Made Me Do It
Summary: On good days, she sleeps with a knife under her pillow. Lisa/Jackson piece.


A/N: Beta-read by the ever awesome NicolinaN.  
Oh, and the title is hers too.

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ON GOOD DAYS

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On good days, she sleeps with a knife under her pillow. Well, sleep is a stretched word, because sleeping would mean actually drifting off into a state of unconsciousness sometimes accented by dreams. What she does is dozes off for short periods of time and jumps at the smallest sound of rustle, hand clutched on the silver blade shoved underneath the soft pillow.

That's on good days.

On bad days, when the fear takes control and chokes her until she can barely breathe, she sits on the couch in the living room, with lights on in the whole house and music blaring from the stereo as loud as she can afford without waking up her neighbours. She's considerate like that. She twirls the large butcher knife in her hands, holding it this and that way, catching the beam from the overhead light fixture and bouncing it casually off the walls.

On bad days, she wonders how quick it would be. The death, if she were to strike with it. She wonders if the knife is sharp enough and what would be the best way to attack? She inspects the blade carefully, runs a finger along the edge until it leaves a red mark. She winces and sucks the injured digit into her mouth pouting slightly.

On bad days, she wonders if she could actually do it: stab someone with that monster-of-a-knife? Or slash. Stab or slash. Slash? Or stab? She ponders for a moment while testing the blade in her hand. Stab? She makes a shoving gesture with the glistening object - or slash? The blade makes a swooshing sound as she slices with it though the air with one fluid motion. She googles it on one of those bad days. Frowns at various methods, quirks an eyebrow at other. She browses the forums and is in the process of posting a question-slash-reply when she catches herself. The absurdity of the situation hits her like a ton of bricks and she jumps from the chair, knocking it over as she scrambles away from the computer. She's shaken and disturbed. She grabs the knife and stalks to the kitchen angrily stabbing the wooden knife block as she shoves the blade in its rightful place. She sleeps without a weapon this time and it's not a pleasant slumber.

On good days, she manages not to look over her shoulders when she's on her way to or from work. Because that's as far as she's able to go nowadays. Her personal life - which was dull to say the least before 'the accident' as she refers to it - is now practically non existent. She realizes it of course. She knows she's pushing her friends away from herself. She tries to explain it in simple ways. The less they hang around her, the less likely they are to get hurt because of her. What she doesn't realize - or maybe she does, subconsciously - is they are hurting because she is pushing them away. She chooses to be ignorant and pretend this isn't so. So she secludes herself, turns down every single man she meets, refuses every single time Cynthia asks her out for a drink. She sees the pain it causes the younger girl, but she keeps telling herself it's for her own good. Her dad still calls. She can't avoid that, sadly. She tried to ignore him too, but he gave her a stern talking to and frankly it scared her so now she just answers every time, but is very quick about it.

On bad days, she almost runs the short distance from the hotel to the parking lot and and locks the car door as soon as she's inside the vehicle. With trembling hands, she quickly feels for the mace in her purse as well as a knife she keeps in the glove compartment. Once she is absolutely sure they are in their designated places, she starts the engine and veers from her parking space. She usually makes it to her home in record times.

On bad days, she is sure someone is watching her all the time, everywhere, and she almost jumps out of her skin when Cynthia touches her shoulder to get her attention. She mutters a small apology to the startled red head and excuses herself quickly while she ducks into the ladies room, where she locks herself in the last cubicle and sobs quietly until there are no more tears to shed.

On bad days, she's a wreck. She's a shell of a woman she was two months ago, before the dreaded flight. She's a scared little girl awaiting her worst nightmare. A nightmare with piercing blue eyes and charming smile. She trembles when she thinks about that he's out there, waiting, watching, smirking. Feeding off her fear. She swears she sees him everywhere, from a random blue-eyed guest to the tall slim neighbor walking a dog. She sees him in a rear-view mirror in a silver BMW when she's driving home and actually panics and pushes the gas pedal until her foot touches the carpeted floor. She hears him when she's walking to the car from a long and bad day of work, his high-polished shoes echoing behind her and she almost runs to the vehicle. She grasps for the purse, blindly reaching for her mace and car keys and she hears the footsteps getting closer. Her hands shake and she drops the keys to the ground, and she curses when she bends to pick them up. The footsteps are almost behind her and she lets out a loud battle cry as she launches at her would-be attacker with a ready-to-use mace but she sees nothing. There's no one there. Only when she's finally inside of her car, hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white, a strangled desperate sob escapes her and after that there's no stopping it. The tears start flowing until she sees nothing in front of her and her whole body convulses as the powerful sobs shake her whole being. She feels empty and broken and so _so_ tired...

It's a good forty five minutes later when she finally manages to pull out of the parking lot and back home for another sleepless night.

_Goddamn you, Jackson..._

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He hides behind a pillar of the parking garage when he sees her groping blindly inside her purse. She looks so frightened that it momentarily shocks him. He doesn't recognize her any more. He's been following her for close to a month now, telling himself he's only doing it because he wants to learn her new routines so that he could be prepared. For what? He doesn't really know. He notices the changes as days turn into weeks. He used to watch her with an evil sinister smirk on his lips, now it turns into a deep frown as he watches her scream and turn with her mace straight in front of her, ready to take on the imaginary evil she conjured in her twisted sick mind. He tells himself he doesn't care. That it's better that she's loosing her marbles because it will make his revenge much easier. The second the thought springs into his mind he hates himself because he is lying to himself. He's becoming someone he despises and it angers him more than he thought it would. But he stays covered in the shadows of a dim parking lot on a Saturday evening and he watches as Lisa's whole body shakes when she finally loses it.

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He waits for the light in the living room announcing that Lisa is awake and leaves the car, strolling casually into the building, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black slacks. He makes sure his entrance is loud when he picks the lock in her apartment, almost rolling his eyes in the process at how unprofessional he is. He smirks when he hears a crash and imagines Lisa scrambling to her feet and darting to the kitchen. He plays with the lock for a moment longer - even though he opened it on the first try - enough to give her time to reach for the knife, then moves in.

She is exactly when he's been expecting her to be; hiding behind a wall at the entrance to the kitchen. He can hear her ragged breathing from his place in the living room. He kicks at the couch on purpose and swears, giving her hints where he is and where he's going to go next. It's no surprise to him when she jumps out from behind the wall, large butcher knife in her trembling hand pointed straight-ish at him. He refrains from rolling his eyes at her poor excuse of a defensive stand.

They eye each other: she with large frightened, but strangely determined eyes, he rather stoic and calm.

"You're holding it wrong," he says matter-of-factly, sounding almost bored.

When she looks at him with a blank, confused stare, he rolls his eyes this time and slaps the blade from her hand.

It clatters to the tiled floor and Lisa can only stare at it open mouthed. She doesn't know if she should feel embarrassed or angry. Probably both.

Jackson bends down to pick it up and eyes it scowling.

"That one is too big. It'll do you more damage than good," he remarks before moving towards her. Lisa jumps startled and almost molds herself into the wall as he passes her with a raised eyebrow and disappears into the kitchen, and then he's back with a much smaller knife which he thrusts into her trembling hand.

"You hold it like that... thumb here... " He maneuvers her stiff fingers around the handle while he explains calmly. "Hold it firmly in your grip... don't put your fingers on the blade... there." He steps back a pace and eyes her stance. She looks shocked and not quite there. He sighs. This would have to do for now.

"You have to have a firm grasp on it. You have it?" When he's met with another blank stare he slaps her hand and the blade flies to the left and bounces off the wall.

He picks it up and presses the blade back into her outstretched hand yet again. "Hold it tightly." He's patient as he repeats the process. "Tighter, Lisa." His hand clenches around hers enough to snap her out of her little trance and she winces at the pain. She glares at him but he pretends not to notice, but inside he allows himself a small smile. _'At least she's showing some kind of emotion.'_

When he's sure she has a firm grip on the weapon he slaps her hand again. This time the blade stays in her hand.

"Good. Now attack me," he commands curtly, and Lisa's frightened eyes snap to his cool indifferent ones. "I said ATTACK ME NOW!" he yells - more for the effect than actual threat - and leans towards her all menacing and dangerous, and Lisa screams as she pounces, knife high in the air like in a bad slasher movie.

He's doesn't even bother to move as he grabs her hand and almost crushes it making her drop the knife. Then he's twisting her arm behind her back and pulling her flush against his chest, her own weapon now digging to the soft flesh of her neck. "You lose." His words caress her ear and then, with one quick move, he drags the blade swiftly across her throat.

Lisa screams as she wrenches herself from his grasp and feels for the wound. Her hands come up clean. There's no blood. She looks down at her outstretched palms then touches the neck again. Nothing. No blood. _How?_ Then it comes to her slowly but clearly. Jackson slid her throat with a dull edge. To make a point.

Jackson watches her with a bored look, twirling the weapon in between his fingers.

Before she manages to utter a word of outrage he thrusts the blade back into her hand. He stands behind her and guides her hand with his as he instructs her how to deal a killing blow. "Don't use your whole body. You're throwing yourself off balance. Stand firmly, thrust forward. Aim at the heart. Try again," he commands, turns her towards him and takes a step back.

She strikes forward, like he said. But he still manages to knock the blade out of her hand.

"You don't hold it tightly enough. Focus!" He picks up the weapon and it's back in her hand. "Again."

A step back.

Forward thrust.

This time he manages to catch her wrist inches from his chest. "Good," he says, curtly and calmly, but inside his heart is beating like crazy. That was a close one.

He looks at her carefully and notices that she's slipping away from him again, her focus dissolving like a morning fog. He sighs and starts walking away. There's nothing more that can be done today. She's beyond exhausted and barely holding up on her feet. At the door he turns to take a look and sees her eyeing he blade with a far away look in her dull eyes. With a soft click the door closes behind him.

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A/N: Meh. It wouldn't leave my head until I wrote it down. I blame my boring job and plot bunnies who OWN me. THEY MADE ME DO IT! Evil, cute little buggers...  
This is chapter one of a small story. HOWEVER, this is NOT a priority. I just want to get it out there. "Transatlantic" is my main objective and this story will be updated whenever I have the time. Hope you understand.  
As always, feedback is very VERY appreciated.

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